


A Hole lot of Trouble

by MGtwins87



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Reality, F/M, Friendship, Humor, Outer Space, Romance, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-05-07 06:09:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14664918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MGtwins87/pseuds/MGtwins87
Summary: The Guardians take on a job that goes south. In the mess, they're sent to a new universe where nothing is what it used to be.





	1. To Infinity and Beyond Wormholes

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! We're twin sisters from Brazil who have decided to write about the amazing Guardians of the Galaxy. This is our first story on this fandom and also our first time posting anything on AO3, so we're both very excited and nervous. We hope to do these wonderful characters justice and provide you guys a great ride. At the end of every chapter, we'll post a drawing (made by my extremely talented sister) about said chapter in order to assist the story with some visual elements. We have a very good premise here, so we strongly advise you to give this fanfic a chance. You will not be disappointed. And finally, comments and kudos are highly appreciated and will possibly make our day, so don't be lazy. If you like it, show it. Now, enough with this, let's cut to the chase:

“Remind me again why stealing a totally dangerous unstable alien bomb, putting it in my ship and then crossing the entire galaxy with it seemed like a good idea?”

The sudden turn of the Milano prevented anybody from answering Peter’s question right away.

“Xandar’s offered us 20.000 units each.” Rocket replied after the ship regained balance. “I think that’s why it seemed like a good idea.”

“Really?” Peter asked sarcastically. “Is it just me or suddenly 20.000 doesn’t sound like a big number? HANG ON!”

The ship dived into the infinity of space, barely missing the hit.

“20K, seriously? Have we really sold ourselves for that little? I mean, what can you possibly buy with only 20.000 units?” Outraged, Star-Lord couldn’t stop with the rhetorical questions.

“A sweater.”  A low voice echoed from behind.

“A sweater?” Rocket repeated disbelievingly. “You don’t even wear a shirt!”

“I have already mentioned that my nipples are very sensitive. Wearing a shirt would only make it worse. “

“Exactly! So, what would you buy a sweater for?”

“I wouldn’t.” Drax said in all seriousness. “Quill’s asked what one could buy with 20.000 units and I answered a sweater.”

“That was a rhetorical question!” replied Peter, even more outraged.

“Well, next time, let me know.”

“The whole point of a rhetorical question is that you don’t have to say it’s rhetorical. Everybody knows that!”

“But then how will I know when I have to answer?” Drax asked sternly.

“How ‘bout this: I buy you a nice sweater with my units then I shove it deep down your throat so you don’t have to worry about answering any more questions, rhetorical or not. How does that sound?” Annoyed, Rocket tried to end that pointless discussion for once and for all.

Drax’s face remained aloof for a few seconds. “Was that a rhetorical question or must I answer it?”

“GUYS!” Gamora yelled. “The Krees are almost reaching us. If they hit us, I don’t think…”

“They’re not gonna hit us!” Rocket interrupted confidently. “If this bomb suffers the slightest impact, everything within a five-click radius will get destroyed. In other words, they wouldn’t be such idiots to a point…”

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMM! And the Milano shook as if an earthquake had just struck in the inside of the ship.

“You were saying…” Gamora said ironically.

“Drax, you and Groot go to the bomb and try to secure it by any means necessary.” Peter ordered. “Without setting it off, please.”

“Gamora, find a way to get rid of those stupid-ass Krees who apparently prefer to kill us than to live. And Rocket…” Peter looked at his friend. “…do not let them hit us. Again”

The raccoon smirked. He knew that if there was one guy that was able to escape from a furious Kree spacecraft unharmed, that guy was him.

“Peter!” Gamora called. “There’s a dead planet about 40 clicks away from here.”

“And what’s the plan, exactly? Land, wait up for the Krees and minutes later be as dead as the planet?”

Gamora’s green face turned to a slight angry red but she only rolled her eyes in response to Peter’s sarcastic comment.

“No. We head straight to the center and once we reach the planet’s gravitational field we shut down the engines in order to drift around its orbit. The Krees will continue to accelerate and fly right past us. Then, we restart the ship and use the thrusters to push us far from the planet.”

Peter glanced at Rocket. Maybe he had understood what Gamora had just said.

“Yeah, that might work.” The raccoon concluded.

“So, let’s do it!” Star-Lord gave the green light. “And here I was thinking I was the leader, Rocket, the brain, Drax, the muscle and you the pretty girl.

“I am Groot.”

“Sorry, buddy.” Peter just then realized he had forgotten about the Flora Colossus. “You can be the muscle too.”

“That’s not what he said, you moron!” Rocket intervened. “But I agree with you, Groot. I also thought it was a very sexist and offensive comment. But, hey, we don’t wanna argue with our “leader” here.” The raccoon made the air quotes gesture begrudgingly.

“Okay, first, I was joking.” Peter tried to defend himself. “And second, I don’t think calling a girl “pretty” can be considered sexist.”

“I don’t think this green-skinned alien is pretty.” Drax spoke. “Actually, I find it hard to even tell that she’s a girl. I can barely see her breasts. Perhaps, she should be our leader and Quill, the pretty girl.”

And suddenly, everybody had something to say:

“Look, I appreciate you calling me pretty, but I’m not a girl…”

“I am Groot…”

“I don’t know which one of you I should kill first…”

“Guys!”

“How can she be pretty? She’s green!”

“I am Groot…”

“I think she’s pretty…”

“Guys!”

“Have you looked yourself in the mirror?”

“Can I answer that or was it one of those rhetorical questions?”

“GUYS!” Rocket yelled finally bringing some silence to the ship. “What the hell is that?”

And far, far away, a tiny and unexpected black dot in outer space seemed to be getting bigger and bigger…

“What?” Peter asked. “That little black dot that looks like a…hole?”

And in that moment, Rocket had a sort of epiphany. His eyes narrowed, his snout frowned and his mouth squirmed.

“Drax, just tell me that the fact you and Groot are here doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with the bomb.”

“The fact that I and the talking tree are here doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with the bomb.” Drax confirmed and the raccoon let out a breath in relief. “But that’s a lie, because there’s something wrong with the bomb.”

“So, why in the hell did you just say there was nothing wrong?” Peter asked in disbelief. And in the face of the Destroyer’s total silence, he completed: “This was not a rhetorical question!”

“He asked me to say it.” Drax pointed to Rocket.

“I swear to God that all those years living merely as a weapon for Thanos doesn’t seem so bad now.”

“What’s wrong with the bomb, Drax?” Peter asked switching his irritation for concern.

“I know what’s wrong!” Rocket exclaimed and sprinted out of the room.

The rest of the Guardians followed right behind him with no idea what could be wrong with the bomb but secretly hoping it wouldn’t be the classic “it’s about to go off”.

“I knew this thing was acting weird.” Rocket was pacing back and forth, analyzing the box filled with buttons and wires and a blue goo-like substance filling its interior.

“What are you talking about, Rocket?” Peter asked still concerned.

“Remember when I said this bomb, when triggered, had the potential to destroy a very, very large area?” This time the question was rhetorical, but luckily enough, nobody wanted to answer it. “Well, I was wrong. This is not a mass destruction type of weapon. It’s the exact opposite.”

Dead Silence.

“What are you talking about, Rocket?” Peter repeated his previous question emphatically so the raccoon could realize that farther explanations were needed. 

“Wouldn’t you like to be the brain now?”

“Rocket!” Gamora reprimanded him, far more interested in learning how to stop the bomb than in her friends’ ego feud.

“Just saying…Alright, instead of destroying, this beauty here creates. See this blue goo-like thingy? It’s made of exotic matter and I’m almost sure it’s the responsible for that hole out there and its alarmingly constant expansion.”

“Almost sure?” Peter just couldn’t resist. “Maybe it’d really be better if I was the brain…” Gamora shot him one of her lethal glances and he immediately looked away. “Just saying…”

“What happened to the Krees?” The green alien suddenly asked. “They’re not on our tail anymore.”

“I wouldn’t be so worried about our blue friends if I were you.” Rocket suggested.

“Why?”

And in that moment, Gamora’s question was answered. But not with words or any other kind of oral sound. The answer came in the form of a violent shudder that made everyone aboard the Milano have their faces instead of their feet (paws, in Rocket’s case and roots in Groot’s) planted on the ground.

“We must’ve entered the planet’s gravitational field.” Gamora said while getting up.

“You’re probably right about the gravitational field.” Rocket recomposed himself. “But it’s not the planet’s.”

Through the window one could see that that once little black dot, clicks away, had become such a massive hole that calling it a little dot was just offensive at this point.

“The short version is that, THIS thing.” Rocket pointed to the blue goo-like substance. “Somehow has created THAT thing.” This time, he pointed to the black hole.

“Maybe it all happened when we got hit but what matters right now is that unless we’re able to stop this thing.” - The bomb- “That thing” - The hole- “is gonna suck us within minutes.”

““Suck us” as in “kill us”?” Peter wanted to make sure Rocket wasn’t just using euphemisms.

““Suck us” as in really “suck us”.” The raccoon kept pacing around the bomb, trying to find a way to disable it. “That, my friend, is what they call a wormhole and no one, in the history of the Galaxy, has ever crossed one before.”

“I am Groot?”

“No tree either, you dumb!”

“Well, if there’s a way in it must have a way out, right?” Gamora asked being practical.

“Theoretically, a wormhole is like a tunnel. We could travel through time and go back centuries into the past or be sent into a distant future, or even come back right here, to this moment.”

“Well, that would be fortunate…” Peter commented.

Rocket went through some wires and pushed a few buttons in hopes he could turn that freaking bomb off.

“Or we could even end up in another universe, parallel to this one, where things would be a whole lot different from what we’re used to. Drax could even lose his nipple sensitivity.”

“I would like to go to that universe.” The Destroyer was suddenly interested.

“So, how do we know where we’re going?” Peter asked curiously.

“We don’t.” Rocket was blunt. “There are two types of wormholes but they don’t exactly come with a manual or an identification sign. We could go anywhere in the space-time continuum within this or any other universe.

Peter let out a breath. “You think you can stop this thing? ‘Cause I don’t like any of our options so far.”

“I can try.” Rocket said lacking confidence.

“Meanwhile, I’m gonna get us outta here.” Peter spoke as a true leader and headed to the ship’s cockpit.

“I’m going with him.” Gamora said and then followed her friend/potential love interest.

Of course there was always the last option in which the simple act of crossing the hole could cause severe damage to their bodies and minds that “suck us” would actually mean “kill us”. Rocket, however, preferred to keep this one to himself.

“All engines must operate at full capacity.” Peter said already in the pilot’s seat.

“Copy that.” Gamora confirmed and increased the thrusters’ power.

“So, why aren’t we moving?” Quill was pushing the motor to the max but the ship didn’t move an inch forward.

“The field’s too strong!” Gamora exclaimed.

What to do? What to do? They had to get out of there immediately!

“Activate all weaponry.” And at last, the leader of the Guardians saw a light in the end of the tunnel. “If we fire all guns at once, the reaction force might be enough to propel us away from this damn wormhole’s gravitational field!”

The green warrior nodded in consent and BOOOOOOMMMMMMMM!!!! A magnificent sound was heard. Or at least it would have been if they weren’t in outer space with no sound propagation…

“It worked!” Peter exclaimed happily when the Milano moved in the opposite direction from the hole. He pushed the engines to the limit and a bit more. “Come on, come on…”

But it didn’t go. And seconds later, the ship was being pulled again towards that once-a-little-and-harmless-black-dot-in-space that now could fit three Milanos in.

“I can’t shut this down!” Rocket finally gave up and turned to look at his companions. Drax had a confused expression on, Groot was unreadable as always and Peter and Gamora were in the cockpit, doing their best to save them all… “We’re screwed.”

They had just run out of options and Rocket was right. They really were screwed.

Who knew they would die like that: because of some stupid spacial abnormality? They wouldn’t die in an epic battle against aliens or saving the Galaxy one more time. Nope. They’d die being sucked by a hole. No witnesses and no glory.

“If we’re sent to that universe you’ve mentioned earlier, where I have insensitive, rigid nipples, I’m going to buy a sweater…”

“I can’t believe I’m gonna die listening to you talk about your nipples…” Rocket grumbled but Drax carried on.

“A yellow sweater. With red stripes on it. Very soft and warm…”

In the cockpit, Peter and Gamora too already knew their fate. But, unlike Drax and Rocket, who had preferred rambling over new sweaters and nipples, those two chose silence. They just sat there, gazing at the stars, at the darkness of space…And then at each other. Without saying anything. After all, they had that unspoken thing going on.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!”

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!”

And it was among hysterical screams and uncontrollable laughter (blame Drax for this one) that our beloved Guardians of the Galaxy vanished.

 

 

 

 


	2. A Whole New Universe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello you guys again! Change of plans! We won't be posting a drawing at the end of every chapter anymore. It takes a long time to get them done and that would delay our schedule. So for now, the written words will have to suffice. If the response to this story is good, we'll post the drawings later. Remember to comment or leave kudos if you're liking where we're going with this. Thank you all in advance. So, here we go:

The first thing Peter was aware of was the throbbing pain in his temples. Then, he took notice of the throbbing pain that seemed to have taken over his entire body. It felt like he had taken a beating from, at least, three Draxes.

He slowly opened his eyes but soon closed them due to an intense clarity. And just then, flashes of the past events came back rushing into his mind: the escape from the Krees, the Milano being hit, the bomb with its blue exotic matter thing (what was with the Krees and the color blue?), Rocket’s explanations, Drax’s terrifying laughter, Gamora’s face, the hole…The hole!

If it all hadn’t just been a dream - correction: nightmare - and they really had crossed that damn wormhole, then where the hell were they?

That clarity was starting to become a real pain in the ass so Peter’s other senses were triggered. Angry car horns and voices, altering between curses and laughter; a familiar smell that Peter simply couldn’t remember from what mixed with the strong odor of urine, probably human… Hold on a second! His eyes were just starting to adjust to the light and along with his sense of smell and hearing, Peter’s sight at last confirmed what he was already suspicious of.

“Am I in New York City?”

After that rhetorical question (alright, enough with this rhetorical-question thing), our dear leader of the Guardians of the Galaxy found himself in complete shock. A few blinks in order to really rule out “this is all a nightmare” possibility and there she was:  the Big Apple! …or at least, the rotten part of that apple.

“What about our agreement on pulling the covers off each other?”

A voice echoed from under a pile of filthy blankets right beside Peter. A voice he’d recognize anywhere.

“Yondu!?” Star-Lord yelled in total disbelief in the face of his not-so-long-ago-dead friend with a sleepy face.

“You’re alive?”

“Look, I know I ain’t at my best but you don’t need to get offensive.”

A part of Peter was genuinely happy to see his mentor again but the other parts were still very confused with no idea what was going on and with a really, really bad headache.

“What happened to you?” Peter cupped the other man’s face in his hands. “How come you’re not blue? Where are your red fin and that creepy flying arrow of yours?”

Yondu glanced at both sides and then faced Peter dead in the eye, as if he had finally recognized him somehow.

“Have you been buying drugs from Jeff again?”

“What?” Peter asked, outraged by the accusation. “Who’s Jeff?”

But Yondu didn’t mind his tone and carried on:

“I don’t trust that guy. I’ve got no idea what he puts in that shit of his, but last time I swear I spent an entire week seeing unicorns.” Yondu used a melancholic tone as if he was reliving the “last time.” ”And that’s not a metaphor, I really saw unicorns. Of every color…red, blue, green, purple…”

Peter could see the other man’s lips moving - and he was almost sure he’d heard something about purple unicorns - but aside from that, nothing else made sense. Not that purple unicorns made sense at all, but they did more than his ex-dead, ex-blue, ex-red fin, ex- arrow-whistler friend sitting right in front of him.

“Yondu!” The Guardian took a deep breath in order to regain his calm. “I’m not high, but you need to answer me this: what year is this?”

Udonta just rolled his eyes. Was that really Peter’s way of convincing him he wasn’t under the influence of any illegal substance?

“Fine. I’ll answer that but only if you promise that the next one won’t be “who’s the president?” ‘cause I’d rather not get into that shit.”

Peter’s face remained impassive.

“2018.” Yondu finally broke the suspense.

Star-Lord did the math in his head quickly and according to it, they were in the same year when they were sucked by that stupid hole…At least, time travel had just been ruled out.

“Hey!” Yondu called out now fully awake. “How’d you know about my nickname?”

It took Peter a few seconds to realize he had been spoken to. But, with everything that was going on, who could blame him, really? “What?”

“Nobody’s called me Yondu since high school. I didn’t remember I’ve told you about this.”

Whoa, wait! Yondu wasn’t Yondu? What the hell was happening?

“Your name’s not Yondu? So, what is it, then?”

“Hey, Rick!”

And before “Rick” himself could answer, a voice, a few steps away, did it first. A man, wearing a ridiculously expensive suit and equally ridiculously expensive sunglasses with a half-cocky-half-nice smile approached them.

“Mr. Stark.” Yondu (sorry, Rick) greeted the billionaire in reverence.

“I saw you two and simply couldn’t resist. Long time no see, right? Thought you guys had robbed a bank and fled to Costa Rica.” Tony joked then reached his hand into one of his suit’s pockets - “Here. To make it up for all this time.” - and handed a one hundred dollar bill to a very happy Rick (or Yondu, for those who are still struggling). “You can keep the change.”

Stark smirked and then directed himself to the other man.

“Pete! Handsome as always. Quiet as never. Is everything okay?” Tony asked but didn’t give the younger man much time to reply. “Here.” And gave away another bill. “So you two don’t fight. A father must love all his children equally, right?” He said and prepared to leave.

“Catch you boys later. Don’t spend it all in one place.” And finally walked away.

And off he went. Our beloved Tony Stark, who apparently was a charming half-cocky-half-nice billionaire in any universe.

Peter just stood there, paralyzed and quiet (as never) holding the one hundred dollar bill in one hand and with no idea who that man was. The only thing he did know for sure was that he hadn’t liked him a bit.

Yondu/Rick stood up excitedly, like a kid who’s just received dozens of tokens for the local arcade.

“Look, whatever it is that you’ve used, it’s gonna leave your body in a few hours. In the meantime, I’m gonna go spend this little beauty here.” He kissed the bill with the kind of love he would kiss his mother (or even more so, after all we don’t know what his mom was like).

“And if you see a unicorn, trust me, it ain’t real.”

It was with that last piece of advice that Yondu/Rick left jumping around the streets of New York, wondering what one could buy with a hundred dollars (and believe or not, a sweater never crossed his mind).

And speaking of the streets of New York, that’s where we’ve left a very bewildered Peter.

“His name’s Rick?” Quill asked himself as if that was the most shocking part of the whole situation. “Rick as in short for Richard or “Rick” as in Rick Martin?”

After that brief digression about his mentor’s name, things were getting clear. And they got even clearer after Peter took a good look - and sniff- at himself. Well, there were two options that could explain his deplorable state: either someone had put something in his drink back on Contraxia that made him pass out, dream about the whole Kree bomb plot then wake up two weeks later on a street of a planet that looked a lot like Earth by the side of a guy who looked a lot like Yondu, or they had indeed crossed the wormhole and ended up in a parallel universe where he was a junkie hobo who lived with his new friend Rick and took money from arrogant strangers wearing expensive suits.

None of the above pleased Peter. Not in the slightest. He needed to find out, for once and for all, what was really going on.

Yondu was clueless so asking him was a waste of time. That Stark guy seemed to know him though, but Peter had no idea who he was or where to find him so that was just as useless…Damn it!

Peter Quill already hated that universe. He, a Guardian of the Galaxy, better yet, the leader of the Guardians of the Galaxy, a Celestial, capable of holding an Infinity Stone in his bare hands (do you have any idea how hard that is?), a funny, good-looking guy with a six-pack and strong arms reduced to a mere homeless person? What was it with that universe? Turn everything upside down and have fun at his expense? He was glad someone was finding that funny because he certainly wasn’t. Well, maybe when things got back to normal where he was the leader of the Guardians, part Celestial, funny, good-looking guy again he could find that funny. But in that moment, it was NOT funny. At all. Screw you, parallel universe!

Peter decided that he should do something. If he found himself in that predicament, how would his friends be holding up? He had to find them and together come up with a plan to go back home.

Quill stood up, throwing the pile of filthy blankets he shared with Rick away (okay, that was a weird sentence). His clothes were a mess but at least they didn’t stand out from the rest. He looked horrible! Alright Peter, calm down. Take deep breaths…

And it was repeating that mantra and taking deep breaths that Peter started to walk aimlessly. He crossed a street. Then another, when he was suddenly cut off by a taxi driver who cursed him in a language he had never heard before…And that smell again! A delicious smell that triggered a memory long ago buried in him. Peter inhaled deeply.

There, a few feet away, there was a hot dog stand. A woman held the hand of her five(ish)-year-old son whose eyes were of pure craving. The amazing smell of steaming sausages being served on beautifully soft sliced buns were all that took to invite Peter for a trip down memory lane…

_“Do you want some mustard on it?” the guy asked already holding the yellow condiment over the sausage._

_“No, thank you.” A soft voice said and smiled. “He finds it too bitter.” And looked at a five(ish)-year-old Peter. “I think it’s because he’s too sweet.” The woman concluded and handed the hot dog (mustard-free) to her son whose eyes were of pure craving._

_But little did she know that what he really craved was to spend the next few hours in her company. Sitting on a bench in the park, listening to her favorite songs, laughing and hearing her call him Star-Lord…Oh, how much he loved when she called him…_

“Hey, asshole!” a very irritated male voice dragged Peter back to reality. “Are you gonna move or stand there blocking the way?” Quill moved away slowly, still hazy by the past.

Why did he have to end up on Earth, of all places? Being a hobo he could get over. The fact he was getting tips from arrogant guys was also bearable. He could even deal with Yondu’s name being Rick…but not Earth!

There was a reason why he had never returned. Earth had scents he didn’t want to smell, sounds he didn’t want to hear, memories he wished he didn’t have…memories that reminded him of all the sadness still left inside. He hated Earth more than he hated that stupid parallel universe. He had to get out of there immediately. But how would he do that, exactly?

And just as if the universe (even after being called names) had heard his silent prayers, a page ripped out of a newspaper flew to Peter and fell on his feet, begging to be noticed.

Quill blinked a couple of times. It wasn’t the first time in the past hour he found himself in complete shock, so what the hell? He took the page and looked at it up close. He needed to be sure. And a few seconds later:

“WHAT THE F***!?”


	3. It is Rocket Science!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Olá pessoal!!! We know this chapter is looooooooooooooooong overdue and we'd like to apologize for it. Clearly, we couldn't keep our promise to update this story on a weekly basis so we'll make a new deal: we'll do our best to post the next chapter as soon as possible. Deal? Don't give up on us just yet! Now, let's cut to the chase:

A gaping Peter Quill blinked once. Then twice. And one last time. Maybe Yondu/Rick was right about the drugs. After all, what else could explain the fact he was before a photo of Rocket smiling, wearing a suit under the headline: “Franklin Wilford III, our most beloved scientist, has discovered a new alternative energy source.” on a newspaper’s page? Better yet, on the front page of said newspaper?

Granted that wasn’t the unicorns Yondu had warned him about, but then, who knows, maybe Jeff’s drugs caused hallucinations with all kinds of animals…

Peter kept his mouth wide open, but gave up on the constant blinking. It didn’t matter how many times he opened and closed his eyes, the image of his raccoon friend was always there.

A deep breath. Maybe that wasn’t his raccoon friend, but another raccoon. Incredibly and unlikely similar to his raccoon friend, but yet, a different raccoon. Perhaps a distant cousin, another experiment of pieces put together. After all, the guy on the photo was called Franklin (not Rocket) and was a well-known scientist (not a fugitive petty thief, wanted by the intergalactic police) who clearly preferred expensive shoes to barefoot. Another deep breath.

Between the options: a) drug-induced hallucinations and b) Rocket having a twin brother, Quill still wasn’t sure which one was the worst.

The article on the newspaper read: “…Dr. Wilford will throw his annual fundraising gala on the 23rd at the main hall of his laboratory and promises to present his new invention at the event…” Peter looked at the date printed on the paper. The gala was in three weeks.

“…the “electrifying batteries”, as they were humorously referred to by Wilford himself, come with the promise to drastically change the way we obtain energy with no environmental impact… Some, however, state that Wilford’s new invention is merely a publicity stunt to…”

Star-Lord stopped reading abruptly and went back a few lines. “…on the 23rd at the main hall of his laboratory…” HIS laboratory! That was it! If a lab was big enough to fit a main hall capable of holding a fundraising gala in it and famous enough to be mentioned on the front page of a newspaper, then finding it couldn’t be so hard.

All Peter had to do was to find out where that lab was, find a way to get there and then wait up for that Wilfred…ford guy, whatever his name was, and ask him if, by any chance, he had an outlaw twin brother with a-not-so-refined taste in clothes.

In that moment, however, our dearest but very naïve Peter Quill had completely disregarded his current - how can I say it - situation and really believed that his meeting with Dr. Wilford would go exactly as planned. Poor Peter…

The leader of the Guardians folded the piece of paper and shoved it in one of his jacket’s pockets, determined to find out the location of that lab. Whatever it took!

After two “get lost, you crackhead!”, three “I’m gonna call the cops if you don’t get the hell outta here” and a bunch of other name callings not appropriate to transcribe here, Peter was almost convinced he would never get the help he needed to find that damn lab!

But, as everybody knows, “almost” doesn’t count. So, in one last attempt, a bit desperate, I might add, Peter decided to give his best:

“Look, I’m not a crackhead nor do I have any intention of stealing your money…I know that I look disgusting and I stink, but could you please help me?” Quill had approached a taxi driver who was singing along a song in the radio while biting off chunks of his sandwich.

The man looked Peter from head to toe and slowly stopped with the singing and the chewing. Maybe he had lost the appetite before the sight of that hobo’s deplorable state or he was simply getting ready to start the car and leave without answering Peter’s plea, not even with a slightest curse. The two options crossed Quill’s mind and, honestly, none of them would surprise him. However, for his surprise and relief, the cab driver didn’t throw up nor take off:

“What can I do for you?”

Just then, Peter found himself in the same state he was found in the very beginning of this chapter: gaping and blinking.

“You’re gonna help me?”

The taxi driver smiled in the face of the other man’s complete astonishment.

“Isn't that what you’ve just asked?” The man replied and didn’t give Peter time to respond, not because it was a rhetorical question, but because he was done waiting. “Hop in!”

Suddenly Quill hesitated. Why was that man being so nice to him? Nobody, up until that moment, had treated him so kindly! Actually, nobody, up until that moment, had treated him at all!

Either that man was a charitable soul, devoted to help the others (even when “the others” smelled like him) or he was a hobo’s killer who would lure them into his car by playing nice so he could take them to an abandoned warehouse far away from the city where he’d kill them off and remove their internal organs to sell in the black market for a great amount of cash.

“Look, man…” The cab driver noticed the other man’s hesitation. “I know this city can be a little…rude, but trust me, there’s more good than bad around here.”

Peter smiled and decided that was about the nicest thing someone had said to him in a while. At last, he got into the cab and shut the door.

“And don’t worry…” The driver started the car. “I don’t plan on taking you to an abandoned warehouse far away from the city to kill you and remove your internal organs to sell in the black market for a great amount of cash.”

Peter Quill stared at him in total shock.

“You’re not the first hobo to get that idea about me.”

* * *

 

“So, you’re friends with Dr. Wilford?” The cab driver, now properly named Daniel, started.

“No! He’s not my friend!” Peter clarified. “But he might know someone who is.”

The driver, who was taking his smelly passenger to the famous Wilford Lab, wanted to know more.

“I see.” He giggled ironically. “He’s hooking up with your girl, ain’t he?”

“What?” Peter was lost.

“Oh, come on! This whole “maybe he knows someone I know and blah blah blah” sounds like a lame excuse to beat up the guy who’s sleeping with your girlfriend.”

Where the hell was that coming from? Maybe a personal experience? And just when Quill was about to open his mouth to ask “where the hell is this coming from?”, Dan (as he liked to be called) spoke:

“Because that’s happened to me, you know?”

See?! Didn’t I tell you it was personal?

“This girlfriend of mine…she was obsessed with Wilford. She used to cut out photos of him from newspapers and magazines and then glue them to one of the wardrobe’s doors. It was like a freaking sanctuary! This one time, I found a picture of us, from our first anniversary, and instead of my face there was his! The bitch had the nerve to replace my face with that furry, disgusting one!” Daniel spoke and gestured and drove, all at the same time and in a very angry manner.

“One day, she simply took off. Disappeared! Didn’t leave a note or any contact whatsoever. Then a few days later, DAYS!” he emphasized that last word “I see her, walking out of a ridiculously expensive restaurant, holding hands with that arrogant, undersized rodent.”

Quill gave a small giggle. That was a good combination of adjectives which could also be used to describe another arrogant, undersized rodent he knew all too well.

“That shit ain’t funny.” Daniel reprimanded. “Especially, since it’s happened to you too, obviously.”

The leader of the Guardians didn’t know if he should laugh or laugh really hard. What was obvious was that Dan clearly hadn’t gotten over his relationship and was looking for any cues to talk about it. Even when there was no logic to those cues… But he was helping him after all, so Peter didn’t laugh nor laugh really hard.

“Look, this thing of Wilford knowing someone I know is not an excuse or a lie.” Quill explained. “In fact, he may very well be my last hope.”

But Daniel was no longer paying attention to his explanation, let alone the dramatic tone he used to play the victim.

“What do women see in that filthy rodent anyway?” The taxi driver asked more to himself than Peter.

“I mean, when he was human I kinda got the appeal…The seductive smile, penetrating eyes…but after the accident…”

“After the accident?” Suddenly, Star-Lord was interested. “What accident?”

The cab driver looked surprised.

“A few years ago?” Daniel tried. “The experiment that went wrong?” Nothing. Peter had no idea what the other man was talking about and judging by Daniel’s facial expression it was like he didn’t know who the Kardashians were!

“Uh…” Quill stalled. “I was out of town.”

Daniel, however, didn’t buy it and raised an eyebrow in suspicion.

“Pretty sure it was a national thing…”

Before that tight spot could get any tighter, Peter decided to shut up and let the drive continue in total silence, with the exception of the noise made by his own thoughts.

“Well, we’re here.”

The cab stopped abruptly in front of a building. No. A gigantic building. No! A gigantically gigantic building. Full of windows so bright that it even hurt to look at them. At the top, an also gigantically gigantic “W” glowed even brighter than the windows.

“There it is!” Daniel exclaimed. “The famous and humble Wilford Lab.”

Peter was staring perplexedly at the magnitude of that place when Daniel’s voice brought him back.

“God, I hate this guy!”

Quill got out of the car and headed towards the front door of the cab. He leaned over through the open window so he could thank Daniel for the ride. The driver, however, spoke first:

“Peter, before you go, three things…” The Guardian only hoped none of them would be “you gotta pay for this ride” or “give me your kidneys!”

“If, by any chance, you see a small blonde chick, with a great ass named Shelly, tell her that her Mariah Carey CD, the one with a rainbow on the cover, is at my place and…” Daniel inhaled and exhaled audibly. “That I still love her.”

Quill got moved by Daniel’s last words, but couldn’t help a small giggle.

“You got it.”

“Second thing: It was a pleasure meeting you and I really hope you find what you’re looking for.”

This time, Peter broadened his smile genuinely. Maybe there was more good than bad in people after all!

“Thanks buddy.” Quill said and turned his back ready to leave.

“One last thing!” Right! There were three things. Peter turned again and smiled (not so genuinely this time).

“If you have a chance, the slightest chance…” Daniel emphasized every word in an impressive seriousness. “Please, please, punch that damn rat in the face!”

Peter closed his eyes and fought back another giggle.

“If I have the chance, I will.” He finally turned one more time and started to walk.

“Punch him real hard!” Dan yelled from the inside of the cab.

“Copy that.”

“Then, tell me how it went. I’m normally parked where you found me.”

“Gotcha.” Peter walked faster now but he could still hear the driver.

“Sticking your finger into his eyeballs and a kick in the nuts are good too…and, who knows, maybe you could shove something up his assh…”

And while he walked towards his last hope (dramatic tone) to the sound of those beautiful words, Peter reconsidered the whole “there’s more good than bad in people” line. Well, in best-case scenario, they were pretty much tied.

 

 

 


	4. Meet the Doctor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! It is offensive to apologize for the delay 'cause it's been too long. But here we are again and hopefully we haven't lost you guys yet. We promise we'll try to update sooner. Sorry again and we hope to make it up to you all with this new chapter.

The hard concrete against his back and the cloud of black smoke coming straight out of the car exhaust and into his nostrils had Peter repeating his cab driver friend’s words:

“God, I hate this guy!”

**_3 hours earlier..._ **

Peter could still hear the sound of Daniel’s voice, but no longer could identify the words. Maybe it was the distance separating them now or maybe it was the nervousness taking over. With each step toward that enormous structure with very shiny windows, Peter sweated a little more.

What if he couldn’t talk to Wilford? Or worse, what if he could and even then didn’t get the help he needed? That was, undoubtedly, the worst thing that could happen to him. Because that would mean that his last hope (very dramatic tone) would be destroyed. And then, there wouldn’t be a lot more left to do than to go back to the streets of New York City sharing blankets with Yondu/Rick waiting for death or another arrogant billionaire willing to give him a hundred dollar bill so he could, at last, spend it on Jeff’s drugs.

That possibility was incredibly depressing, so Peter decided not to think about it any longer.

That, however, didn’t help his case at all! Especially because every time we tell ourselves not to think about something that’s exactly what we do.

Daniel’s cab was long gone and, for a moment, Peter wished his friend was still there. There was something comforting about the driver’s, even the unidentified, words.

He was alone and in the face of that gigantic building, the loneliness seemed a lot bigger…That Wilford guy sure knew how to make someone feel welcome…

A few more drops of sweat and Star-Lord was in Wilford’s territory.

The garden at the entrance was somewhat humble compared to the rest. The plants were geometrically trimmed and looked like little cubes spread around the grass, which looked more like a green carpet than a living organism. There were benches all over the place and it didn’t take long for Peter to realize that was a public space. It was like the sidewalk in front of a house, anyone could step on it but only if you were invited could you walk through the front door.  And given Quill’s predicament, stepping on the sidewalk just wouldn’t suffice.

A few hundred feet away, one could see the real entrance of Wilford Labs. Behind the automatic bulletproof steel doors there was definitely a heavy security system operating. The leader of the Guardians already anticipated the classic metal detectors, 24/7 surveillance cameras, men armed to the teeth incapable of a smile who’d flash their guns at any chance possible and God only knows what else that was intimidating enough to keep stinky hobos like himself far away from there.

In another universe (literally), Peter Quill, the amazing, the incomparable Guardian of the Galaxy, endowed with enviable strength, intelligence and fury would walk in there without hesitation. He would ask for that Wilford guy and poor of those who’d try to stand in his way. However, (and Peter was growing tired of it, for the record) that wasn’t another universe. Actually, it kinda was. And that just sucked! Because in that shitty universe, Peter Quill didn’t even have a codename. He was just a guy whom most people didn’t even bother to look at and if they did it was either out of pity or for personal entertainment.

“Ok, Peter…” He thought. Maybe he lacked people’s admiration and the sex appeal from before, but his intelligence and wits were still pretty much alive in that (still very toned) body of his. “So, how do I get from here to there…?”

**_15 minutes later..._ **

Peter was still zigzagging on the sidewalk outside of the building repeating the same question over and over again like a mantra. “How do I get from here to there...?”

 Fine! Perhaps it was time to admit that his intelligence was not having the best of days and appeal to his wits.

**_5 minutes later..._ **

Well, apparently the wits weren’t working either. That conclusion was drawn by Peter himself when he was practically thrown out of the door right after he entered the building, very confidently I might add, claiming to be Wilford’s childhood friend willing to invite him to an elementary school reunion.   

Either there was no such thing as reunions in that universe or it was just the way he looked, but one thing became very clear: those men armed to teeth, incapable of a smile didn’t like Peter one bit.  

Outside of that fortress, Quill had already convinced himself that there was no better (or other) option but wait.

Finally, he sat down next to one of the “cube” bushes where a nice shadow was calling him. If he was going to wait, it would be best to do so protected from the incandescent three o’clock sun.

Peter made himself comfortable and checked his surroundings. He was practically alone. With the exception of a few vehicles that would sporadically cross the same street Daniel had dropped him off earlier, there was no one around. Immediately, his thoughts took him far away, back to when he was eight years old. Back to when his mother was sick and his father was just a story. Back to when the loneliness was so loud that the only way to shut it down was to turn on his walkman…  

Peter then thought about Gamora and if he would ever see her again. He thought about his life before that stupid wormhole and a horrible feeling of emptiness invaded him. It felt like he had lost that life a long time ago and maybe forever… And then, he felt like he was eight again. Completely alone...

This time, however, there was no music to silence the noise.

* * *

 

The noise of huddled voices and muffled screams made Peter jump awake.

It was hard to say how much he’d slept, but the sun was practically gone, leaving a trace of yellow on the dark twilight horizon.

Quill took a few minutes to regain consciousness and remember where he was. He was sleeping heavily but in a bad way. He had dived into horrible nightmares about his mother and had even dreamed about Gamora’s death.

He would have been gladder to wake up in the silence than to the sound of all those voices coming from the entrance of the lab though.

What the hell was going on?                               

Peter observed curiously the commotion with no apparent reason that seemed to have turned that deserted place into a movie premiere full of A listers.

Part of the group was definitely from the press. Something Quill quickly deduced after spotting several cameras and microphones among the crowd. The majority of the people, however, were women clearly gone mad and responsible for the screams, not so muffled anymore. Was that some sort of feminist rally?

Quill decided to approach the fuss. But he did it slowly…After all, the probability of getting shot in a commotion is way higher than in any other circumstance.  

The closer Peter got to the crowd, the more one could see that that was no rally.

I must warn you beforehand that the real reason of said commotion made Peter Quill question his own existence. Made him consider, better yet, made him wish that he was still asleep and that was nothing but a terrible nightmare… Anyway, what I mean to say is that the next paragraph contains disturbing descriptions. Therefore, it is my duty as a responsible narrator to alert you about the next words. So, in case of cardiovascular disease, nausea or suspected pregnancy I don’t take any responsibility.

Peter was paralyzed. It felt like he had just taken a punch to the gut and couldn’t catch his breath. He resumed to that gaping state with the constant blinking from the previous chapter. One last look only to be sure that the reason of all that fuss was…Rocket?

“FRANKLIN!” An attractive blonde woman exclaimed next to Peter. “I LOVE YOU!” She shouted one more time.

The raccoon walked slowly toward her without losing visual contact. His red tie made of a sparkling fabric seemed to have thousands of little diamonds glued to it. The black suit worked as the perfect contrast and the shoes, shiny black, made the whole outfit more expensive than a penthouse on the Upper East Side.

The other people in the crowd carried on with their competition of who screamed the loudest, but Franklin’s attention was solely directed to the shouting blonde at that point.

“Well, I don’t know you, but with an ass like that I could certainly love you too.”

Quill’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped. Was that really Franklin Wilford? ‘Cause that sure as hell sounded like something Rocket would say. But, unlike the guaranteed slap in the face Rocket would’ve received after professing such beautiful words, Mr. Wilford there seemed to have caused such an effect on the woman that she lifted her shirt only to have her breasts autographed by the scientist. He even gave her a peck on the lips.

Peter couldn’t help but throw up in his mouth a little bit. Partly because of the kiss per se and partly because of the whole cliché.

That, definitely, was no feminist rally.

Wilford kept his pace accompanied by a few crazy fans and several reporters trying to ask him questions.

“Can you tell us anything about your new invention or will we have to control our curiosity until the Gala?”

The scientist looked at the journalist from head to toe.

“Who do you work for? The Times?”He asked but didn’t wait for a reply. “I hated the photo you guys used on the front page!”

And left without any further comment, escorted by two security guards, looking as happy as the ones from the inside of the Lab.

Peter was close to the crowd but he wasn’t a part of it. Keeping a safe distance, the Guardian observed the situation attentively.

 Of course that by now, it was obvious that that Wilford guy was an asshole and unless you had an amazing butt he wouldn’t give a shit.

However, Quill needed to talk to him. Really needed it. And, besides from the fact that that animal (literal and figuratively) represented his last hope, his intuition was telling him that Franklin could really help him.

Peter thought fast. It looked like someone’s intelligence had finally decided to show up again… He glanced at the street that gave access to the Lab then turned his gaze back to the crowd and left in a hurry.

* * *

 

One of these days all of those flashes would end up blinding him. Franklin Wilford thought while putting his sunglasses back into one of his suit’s pockets.

There was a certain annoyance that accompanied fame. But Wilford preferred it regardless. The black armored car was waiting for him a few feet away. Soon enough, all the screaming and stupid questions would be over.

“Dr. Wilford…” A reporter called out, but Franklin shrugged and decided to make one last announcement:

“My annual Gala, as it was widely published by yourselves, is in less than three weeks. So, until then I guess you’ll have to settle for petty crimes involving uninteresting anonymous people.”

He entered the car and closed the door. His two bodyguards followed in different vehicles and Wilford could finally relax.

“Do you think I was too harsh on those reporters out there?” The raccoon asked James, his loyal driver who had been working for him for over ten years.

“They’re a bunch of vultures anyway! I think I was too nice if you ask me…Remember what they did after the accident? I couldn’t even step out of my own house without being harassed until there was nothing left! Well, but that’s a sob story and I hate sob stories…” The scientist had his gaze turned to whatever view the car window was framing, but his thoughts were elsewhere. And, since he also hated ramblings…

“Oh, did you get the number of that hot blonde that kissed me?” Again, James couldn’t even begin to articulate an answer. “On second thought, she wasn’t that hot, right? I mean, she had a nice pair of boobs and all, but who doesn’t nowadays… And besides, those type of girls usually have horrible taste in music. Can you believe that the girl I’m seeing is a fan of Mariah Care…”

 A sudden braking practically threw Wilford onto the passenger seat next to James. The vehicle had almost run over someone who now lied down in front of the car.

“What the fuck!”

Franklin, who wasn’t exactly known by his patience and/or tolerance, stepped out of the car immediately. James, on the other hand, sat still.

“Hey, asshole!” Wilford started angrily. “Next time you decide to get wasted and throw yourself in front of a moving car just make sure that ain’t MY car!”

The recently almost run over person got up slowly and faced Wilford right away. Oddly enough the guy had a smile on his lips.

“I knew that was gonna work!” He said laughing. “I mean, I knew this was the only route you could take…one-way street and all…But I really thought your driver would stop a little sooner, you know? After all, I’m a reasonable tall guy who draws attention, but that’s okay.” The man finally straightened himself up and checked his body for wounds. “I’m fine though. Your tie, on the other hand…” and pointed to the piece of fabric that was now hanging on the raccoon’s back.

“Who the hell are you?” Wilford, with the same level of annoyance from before, interrupted and adjusted his tie. But, as it was one of his most detestable habits, he didn’t wait for a reply.

“A reporter? Are you following me?” The scientist continued while analyzing that man in front of him. “What kind of person dresses themselves as a hobo only to get an interview? Oh, great costume, by the way! Not showering for a week really helped with the character composition…”

“Ok, for starters, I should be very offended by the whole showering thing if that wasn’t completely true…And second, I’m not a reporter. My name’s Peter Quill.

Wilford laughed sarcastically.

“Peter Quill?” Franklin sounded surprised. “And what are you, Peter Quill? ‘Cause as a hobo, you’re not convincing anybody…”

“ Oh, really? Thanks man! I also think I’m too handsome to be a hobo. But you should tell that to the guy who gave me this bill here…” The Guardian shoved his hand in one of his pockets in order to show the one hundred dollar bill he had received from Tony Stark a few hours ago.

“So is that what you want? Money?”

 Now, it was Peter’s turn to laugh sarcastically.

“Would you stop trying to guess things? You really suck at it! I just want to talk to you.”

“Talk to m… Oh, I get it.” Wilford rolled his eyes as if he had figured everything out. “You’re a fan, am I right? A little over the top for my taste, but a fan is a fan.” The scientist searched through his pockets until he found a pen. “The whole scene of throwing yourself in front of the car was really unnecessary. If you wanted an autograph you could’ve just as..”

“I’m not a fan!” Peter was done playing games. “And I don’t want your money! My name is Peter Quill and I am the leader of the Guardians of the Galaxy! I’ve crossed a damn wormhole caused by a freaking Kree bomb that I was carrying in my ship that now sounds like a pretty dumb idea but it was 20K! Suddenly, I woke up in what appears to be another dimension, dressed like this, smelling like a locker room after a soccer game in a rainy day that has been closed for a very long time, in the middle of the street, sharing blankets with a friend of mine that was supposed to be dead named Rick, with no clue of where I was and how I ended up there to begin with! Then, I saw your picture in the newspaper and you looked so smart in that world-renowned scientist outfit you had on besides looking extremely alike this other friend of mine who was also in that ship with the same Kree bomb, who’s also very smart, though I’ll never admit it to his face, who’s also incredibly arrogant, and that I recognize any day. Then, I thought that maybe, just maybe you could help me, at least, understand what is going on. Then, I took a cab, became friends with the driver who accused you of stealing his girlfriend and, quite frankly, after that scene with the blonde I think he was telling the truth…Then, I tried to get into your lab, got kicked out by your security guards who, by the way, are among the most unhappy fellas that I’ve ever met, waited for hours until you decided to leave and be an asshole to all those poor bastards that for some reason think you’re the best, took the risk of being run over and practically was by your driver, who clearly doesn’t know what speed limit is and you really think I want an autograph?”

When he was done, Peter was panting. He hadn’t planned on that monologue, but just like diarrhea it simply came out uncontrollably. Franklin was staring at him in admiration and almost smiling.

“Ok, now I get it.” The raccon said. “You’re crazy.” And turned around toward the car.

“Oh, and about the most unhappy fellas you’ve ever met…” Wilford turned to face Peter again. “They’re right behind you.”

Maybe it had been the fury that had blinded him during his effusive speech, but Quill couldn’t tell when those bad looking securities had appeared. They grabbed both of his arms while Dr. Franklin Wilford walked away.

“You gotta help me!” Peter was thrashing around in vain. “You’re my last hope, you rodent son of a bitch!”

But the rodent son of a bitch didn’t even glance back. Quill was exhausted. Exhausted of not knowing anything! Exhausted of running after answers to a problem he wasn’t even able to identify. Exhausted both physically and emotionally before that so familiar stranger.

Before complete surrender, however, Peter tried one last time, forgetting for a second that that wasn’t his friend.

“I need you, Rocket!”

It was subtle, almost imperceptible and one might even say I’m making this up, but to the mention of that last word, Wilford’s gaze met Peter’s. It only lasted a fraction of a second, right before the departure of the vehicle, and maybe it is just me, but it felt as if, for a moment, Wilford had recognized Peter Quill.

The security guards finally put our guardian on the ground, who let himself fall accepting his irrefutable loss.

The men got in the car, started the engine and drove away.

The hard concrete against his back and the cloud of black smoke coming straight out of the car exhaust and into his nostrils had Peter repeating his cab driver friend’s words:

“God, I hate this guy!”

 

 


End file.
